Moonspear the thing about gods is that they're eternal

drogon slows, habitually, when he reaches the spot of vela's almost abduction. this is why he saves his stretch of border for last now. he gives pause and replays the scene when he came into it back in his head. the tundrian hadn't had much time to examine what'd been happening or how it happened beyond that he saw vela was being drug away and that he knew he needed to save her ...or die trying. his hackles bristle and prickle and his puffs his chest with unbridled indignation as he ensures this particular place is saturated in his scent regardless of whose urine he is covering. a reminder, should iliksis come slithering back that drogon was watching now. he was ready and the next time — if there was one — drogon wouldn't just let him walk away relatively unscathed.

god save the soul of whatever sick creep tried to do anything to vela again.

he is broken out of his rumination, swarthy ears perking and swiveling atop his skull, as the chuff reaches him and lures him back to present. drogon blinks once, eyelids hooded and pupils nearly swallowed by the pool of glacial blue irises as he swings his head to peer at the owner of the chuff — far too deep to belong to vela or one of the cerberus. ganadorf's red fur stands out in stark contrast against the snowy backdrop around them. There is slight surprise in drogon's expression as his fellow blackfeather defector approaches him. It's been some time since he's seen the other male ...to the point where drogon almost forgot about him.

"ganondorf," the maned ansbjørn greets him. "it's been a while." the leijona remarks with a twitch of his lips in a smirk; but on the topic drogon said nothing further. that door swung both ways and drogon's been unapologetically distracted by a certain freckled lady as of late.